( )

— in which I turn fever-dreams into fairytales.

Sheets dry with the smell of you, pomegranate and the moon, you left yourself in the thread.

You are the type of girl that death falls in love with,

all doe-eyed, sea blue, mouth like a heart. You grow

gardens in the dark places, places for the ghosts to

rest – and the art too.

Notice the way that you have piled up in his corners, he throws open the windows and you dance across the wooden floors with the sunlight and the moonlight too — you were made for missing,

and he has missed you from the moment you arrived.